


i'll bite the hand that feeds me

by mywaterloo



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Canon Compliant, Ficlet, Pre-Relationship, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:53:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25383388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mywaterloo/pseuds/mywaterloo
Summary: Erwin's arm is hurting. It could be a bruise. It could be something more terrifying.
Relationships: Levi & Erwin Smith, Levi/Erwin Smith
Comments: 2
Kudos: 39





	i'll bite the hand that feeds me

**Author's Note:**

> hello!!!
> 
> i've started watching snk not long ago and wanted to write about these two who've been some of my favourite so far and i hope nothing bad happens to them……ahah……
> 
> also this was originally in french but my friend myriam helped me translate it, kudos to her 
> 
> thank you for reading!

Erwin aches well before the bruise's forming on his arm. Better yet, he aches even before the cause of the pain has hit him. It’s some sort of instinct—it's body hair standing on end when the wind’s nearly there but not quite there yet, not really, hasn’t had time to brush over the skin. It's a cry let loose by a pair of lips in anticipation of what comes next. 

And Erwin aches. Because he can feel the pain. Because that’s what he does best: feeling.

When you first meet him and you see him like that, when you stumble upon his sturdy figure, his broad shoulders, toughened up by battles, his hard, prideful chest, his arms ready to unsheathe the sharpest of swords in one swift gesture, you don’t think about it. You don’t think: that big, strong man right there is quite the sensitive lad, that’s for sure. 

You’re more wary of his strength, his speed, the power of his blows. You remember his time in the army, and what had been whispered in the corridors, the rumours whenever his convoy had passed through the gates of Wall Rose: Erwin Smith, prodigious leader, titans slayer, outstanding strategist—unsparing, unyielding, unfaltering. That’s the kind of words you’d hear about him.

And Erwin’s all of that, sure. But these things, he’s worked hard on it. They’re years of practice. They're hundreds of fights with titans. They're hours of counting the dead, minutes of trying to bring people back to life, seconds of seeing them be torn apart. They've stained him with the crimson truth: that his body is the work of war, and the fangs of the giants the chisel that sculpted him.

It's quite a sad thing to say, really. But then again, nothing happy ever comes out of a bloodshed. 

Then, there's his senses. His senses—well, that’s another story. 

His senses are a natural marble he’s never had to polish. Something that fell on him when he was born. Or rather, that was born within him, that fed on his desires and grew as he himself grew taller, and ended up invading the whole of him, and the whole of what surrounded him. Every little ray of light, the rustle of the foliage, the racing breaths in the trachea of his men—his senses had absorbed them all. Had turned them into a starving monster in the hollow of his chest. 

For the longest time, Erwin had fought against it. At night, at his boarding school, when his roommates were asleep—for they could sleep, deaf to the sickening orchestra of the dark, when everything that the day had hoped to swallow was loudly blaring up and reverberating against the walls without fear of being chocked down—at night, Erwin would shout. He'd scream until his throat burned. 

He thought that, howling like that, loudly enough, long enough, he’d chase the monster away. He’d push it out of the pit of his stomach, a possessed body finally exorcised. And if it didn't work out, he hoped at least that it’d deafen him for good. He'd be fine with that, relieved, even, not hearing the slightest sound ever again.

Of course, none of this ever happened. And as his hearing suffered from such a tiring experience, his other senses compensated for its temporary defects. He'd end up with his nostrils full of the raw, musky smell of the other students, even outside of the classrooms they’d cram themselves into, foolish enough to believe they were safe from a danger that was still too remote from them, his forehead dripping with their sweat like second skin. During these moments, he couldn’t blink anymore without having his eyes burn, couldn’t open his mouth without feeling his teeth dig the soil he was walking upon. 

He knew he couldn’t go on this way. It was impossible. Unbearable. You couldn’t expect to hold the whole world inside of you and never implode. 

And so, to avoid splitting his soul, Erwin chose to breach his being: he joined the army. Only there did he learn how to tame the monster.

(Before that, he’d never have guessed he could turn it against something more ravenous than the darkness within him.)

That's for the story.

That's for the pain.

What Erwin doesn’t understand—for understanding and feeling are two different things and that one inevitably leads to the negation of the other—is the cause. Why he hurts, all of a sudden, when there’s nothing to hurt him. 

He stays on the lookout. His boots are anchored to the ground, waiting for a new attack, but nothing comes; his ears can’t catch any sound other than the growling of the three insurgents the Survey Corps have just captured. Which means, no one else is likely to show up. For some reason he’s not sure to grasp, this thought doesn’t make him feel better. 

He looks for another explanation, pictures an aftershock of his altercation with the man who’s now kneeling before him, but he remembers that he hasn’t hit him, not there, and nothing else comes to his mind. 

Only later, much later, when, during a training session, his sword clashes with the dagger of that same man and his arm pulls him again, will he know. He'll cast a glance at the purple patch on his skin, wondering how long it's been since the color became so vivid; and he'll look up, and see the soldier's heated glare in front of him, and he'll stare at the man's right hand, the circles his thumb will draw on his biceps, and then his lips, muted, pinched in a line so thin it'll absolve silence itself, and he'll know.

But for now, his eyes gauge the trembling of the rebel's jaw, the monster purring in the dark.


End file.
